Pandemics and Pain

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As if a pandemic weren’t bad enough, my left knee has completely gone to shit.

Back Story: I tore my meniscus in 2009 walking–not running–a 5K. Takes talent, huh? It required arthroscopic surgery and I was mostly fine for five years. Six years ago, however, I had to do extensive physical therapy because it started flaring up again. I’ve mostly been living with sporadic pain for the past six years, thanks to Plan A: Mostly-annual Cortisone injections. My last injection, though, was this past December, but it didn’t last more than a few weeks. Plan A: Done.

I’ve been grateful to be working from home during the pandemic because I haven’t had to walk from my large parking lot into my large office building and all the way to my seating area. However, there have been days it’s been painful to even walk from my new office (dining room table) to the bathroom. Time for Plan B.

After fighting with my insurance company, this week I had an injection of synovial fluid from a rooster comb. Seriously. You can’t have it if you’re allergic to chicken! The doctor explained it’s more of a gel and is supposed to help to cushion the bone-on-bone scenario I have going on. He further advised that some people feel the effects right away, while for others it can cake 2-6 weeks. I seem to be in the second category. I’ve so far felt no difference. I mean, I’m hopefully in the second category because there are also others for whom it doesn’t work at all. Here’s hoping I’m not in that category.

Side Note: My orthopedist, his assistant, and an intern shadowing him were all in the room with me. I blurted out, “This is the most people I’ve been in a room with in months!” They apologized. I said, “No. It’s kind of nice.” And it was. I’m an extrovert and miss people.

Fast Forward to the Weekend: I’ve sort of been moping around in a funk because the injection hasn’t started working yet, but today I woke up with new resolve. I refuse to succumb to this and to the extra weight that the pandemic and pain are creating in and on my body. It starts now. It’s not going to be easy, but what in life is?

Friday Night

I was excited for last night. I had it on my calendar for months.

Backstory: In 2017, my SO and I traveled to Shambhala Mountain Center, a Buddhist center in the Colorado Rockies, for a meditative hiking retreat. I could write a small book on how amazing that experience was, but I’ll save that for another time.

We gathered with the other meditative hikers and met our teachers, Chad and Kay. It was a beautiful and eclectic group—Midwesterners from Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Illinois; native Coloradoans; one southerner from Texas; East Coasters; West Coasters—even an actress from Los Angeles (I knew there was something about her, but I wasn’t able to place her until after we were home and the group’s email list arrived).

The first night, we got to know Chad and Kay and each other. They explained how we would be acclimating ourselves to the altitude before our big climb. The first climb would be 2.5 miles up, the second five miles up, and the third 9.5 miles up.

I was having serious doubts the night before the final climb. I tore a meniscus nine years ago, and the five mile climb two days prior had been hard on my knee, even with my knee brace and trekking poles. I was also in my head that I wasn’t in good enough shape for this. My doubts were so serious that I didn’t get any sleep. Yet I knew if I didn’t do it, I would regret it.

Very long story short: It was not easy in any way, shape, or form, but I did it! I was at the top of this breathtakingly beautiful mountain in awe of the spectacular view and of myself for accomplishing something part of me felt was impossible. As I was sitting in amazed disbelief, Kay gathered us around and read a poem. The poem, Ordinary Metamorphosis, literally brought me to tears. It spoke to me and where I was at on my journey. The poem, it turns out, had been written by one of her Buddhist teachers in the Bay Area, Anam Thubten.

ORDINARY METAMORPHOSIS

The spiritual path is long and winding
With countless delusions and illusions
And now and then a little insight.

Why is it so easy to descend instead of ascend?
To sleep instead of to wake?
To be bound instead of to be free?
To be frozen instead of to melt?
To whom should we complain,
“This is not a fair game!”?

I was trying to transcend my humanness
along with my sorrow.
Years of renunciation,
countless prayers,
Fasting,
Meditation,
Discipline…
Nothing was working.

One day I felt so exhausted in my bones
I fell apart in beautiful despondency.
I became a helpless child crawling on the ground.
With no desire to become the Phoenix —
Just wanting to become myself again.
A newer me, more ripened,
more cooked,
more spiced.

A woman that works at the local nursery
Told me to buy an ordinary plant.
She said, “This one will have beautiful flowers.”
I planted it with great care.

Today it is wearing hundreds of flowers
Like a charming lady with colorful jewelry.
With a gentle heart anything can blossom.

– Anam Thubten
Pacific Northwest Dharmata Retreat
Great Vow Monastery
May 6, 2016

Fast forward one year. I often peruse workshop events offered at my favorite yoga studios, meditation centers, creative spaces, etc. I was scrolling though the calendar of a meditation center in my area that was, for a while, offering a women’s practice group I was interested in, but I couldn’t find it. I thought, Well, maybe it starts up again at the beginning of the year, which is why I was looking so far in advance. Scroll, scroll, scroll . . . nothing. But then something caught my eye. Anam Thubten of the poem from the top of the mountain was going to be giving a guest teacher talk there! What?!!! All the way from the Bay Area? I wrote it on my calendar and checked back periodically to see if it was really true or a cruel typo–a calendar error that hadn’t been cleared from the previous year. No! Each time I checked, there he was!

I don’t usually like walking into new situations alone, but I couldn’t find anyone to go with me. Soul Sister 1 is in a new relationship and gutting the home she just purchased, so I didn’t even ask. Soul Sister 2 is in yoga teacher training, and had training that weekend. My ex, who I see often because we love each other and are still best friends, said no, Shambhala was the limit of his wu-wu-ness.

So last night I drove over to the next city and nabbed a sweet parking spot. A validation, I thought, that I was right where I should be! I went in and removed my shoes, walked into the meditation hall and grabbed a cushion. I had only been to this center one previous time—for a daylong women’s retreat, which was the bomb (if you’ve never heard of Spring Washam, go look her up and read her book A Fierce Heart right now). Last night’s event was very different from that daylong women’s event, I noticed—very man-centric. I was thinking, So THIS is where single men hang out on a Friday night? Who knew! The ratio of men to women was staggering and like nothing I’ve seen anywhere except maybe near our northern lakes during fishing season.

Something else was different from the women’s event too. It was a little more crowded, and it smelled a little funky . . . like feet. What’s with these men and their stinky feet? It didn’t smell like feet at the women’s event and we had our shoes off too. There went my idea of—when I’m ready—coming here on a Friday night to meet someone. It was super stuffy and stinky. Thankfully, someone opened a couple windows and turned on a fan, but it wasn’t quiiiite enough for all that breathing deeply and concentrating on breath.

Let’s just say I’m not the world’s most proficient meditator. My mind wanders constantly and I tend to get annoyed that it is lasting so long, but I try. Last night I had a hard time overcoming the aroma in the air.

But then I looked up and there he was! My beautiful poet walked in and I felt as though I was in the presence of royalty. I could NOT wait to hear from him in the flesh and glean all that gorgeous wisdom. He sat, sounded the singing bowl, and we meditated. And meditated. And meditated. And meditated. Along with my foot odor thoughts, I was now thinking we are running low on time for me to hear from my poet. It was supposed to be two hours and would now only be 1.5. And I should have brought his poem that I framed to have him sign it. And thank God someone opened the window. And, damn, I still smell feet when the wind’s not blowing. And my butt is going to seriously be numb by 9 p.m.

Suddenly, the singing bowl sounded again and I was going to hear him speak! But, no. A woman got up to introduce him and decided to make some announcements first. Now they’d taken up 45 minutes of his time. My poet sat there with his eyes closed, a smile on his face. What a beautiful, serene soul. Hurry up, woman, I need to hear what he has to say.

Finally, someone put a microphone around his neck and it was his turn. And I was ready. He closed his eyes for a few second to gather his thoughts—similar to what Chad had done at Shambhala—and now he was finally speaking. Wait, what? What did he say? Hey, what’s going on? Sigh. Oh noooooo! He speaks very quietly and in a heavy Tibetan accent. I was able to decipher maybe every 10th word. Excitement shattered. Here’s this beautiful, sweet soul saying important things in my presence, but I couldn’t understand them. I looked around. People were leaning in quizzically and smiling. You can’t help but smile in his presence because of the sweetness of his aura. I concentrated and caught the gist of his dialect and discovered if I watched his lips carefully, I could decipher maybe every 7th word. And then he was done. He had only spoken for 30 minutes before he asked us to chant. And we chanted some more words I couldn’t understand, but again I tried. And then my time with him was over and I walked to my car.

Earlier, when I was feeling sorry for myself a lot over the turn my life had taken, I would have been annoyed or disheartened. But I got in the car and laughed. And laughed some more at the irony. I couldn’t wait to get home and text Soul Sister 2 about it. (BTW, SS2, the numbers are not a pecking order. SS1 and I were calling each other SS before we realized you were one of us. So it’s just a chronological thing.)

In my excitement, I hadn’t eaten dinner, but because it was so late I didn’t want to eat food and instead decided to grab a matcha at Starbucks/Target. Then I went into Target and grabbed some chips, guac and coffee for the weekend.

In the coffee aisle, a very sad-looking man, also with a heavy accent, approached me and said he was homeless and was short 50 cents in order to buy the bag of chips in his hand, and did I have 50 cents? I handed him all I had, which was a $10 bill. He looked at it and cried. He said I didn’t have to do that; that he was only short 50 cents. I said I didn’t have change and I wanted to give him the $10. He cried again and asked my name. Then he said my name and hugged me. By then, a store employee had walked over to see if everything was okay. The homeless gentleman went to pay for his chips and the employee said, as she watched him walk away, “He comes here a lot. Some people have complained and we’ve had to ask him to leave. Wait! Did you just give him money?” I said yes. And she hugged me as well and told me how kind that was.

I walked out of Target with my chips, guac, coffee, and matcha, fresh from being in the presence of my sweet poet and hugs from two strangers, and realized that no matter what, it was a very good Friday night.

Mother’s Day

It’s Mother’s Day. But my mother is gone. And I’m not a mother, unless you count a miscarried fetus and some deceased dogs. My view from the cliff today is somewhat gloomy.

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And yet, I sit here in my sweet comfy house while my friend P is at home taking care of a gravely ill fiancé. My friend L is journeying through a cancer diagnosis. Things could be so very much worse. So I shouldn’t be so unhappy, right?

Right. But tell that to my feelings. My husband is gone now. These Sundays with nothing to do are the most difficult.

So I am just going to wallow today if you don’t mind, and I’ll be back, happier, another day.